


Apples and Lemons

by swagatha_christie



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6633490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swagatha_christie/pseuds/swagatha_christie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Efficient, beige-bedecked secretary Miss Lemon visits erratic author Ariadne Oliver, with predictable consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apples and Lemons

_”But the poison was not in the sink, Inspector,” the detective said, waving a finger. “The golf clubs prove th  
hhh h_

“Damn!” Mrs Ariadne Oliver gave the typewriter a sharp smack. This achieved nothing. Attempts to extract the page were also unsuccessful, managing only to tear Sven Hjerson’s dramatic reveal of this week’s killer in half (working title _‘Murder in the Shrubbery’_ ). Frustrated, Ariadne grabbed an apple from the apple bucket and demolished it with contempt.  
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid was out on an unspecified errand, so Ariadne stalked across the room (which had lavender wallpaper, with a green floral print) and wrenched the door open herself. Standing outside was a familiar figure, wearing a sensible beige jacket, a sensible tan skirt, sensible brown shoes, and a completely ridiculous curly fringe.  
“Miss Lemon! Do come in. Watch out for the pile of hats.”  
Stepping carefully around the discarded bonnets, Miss Lemon followed her into the apartment (floral wallpaper, green on lavender). She’d seen many offices in her secretarial career, but never one in such a state of disarray. Presumably there was some furniture underneath the various scarves and newspapers. With great restraint, she refrained from tutting disapprovingly. 

After offering her visitor a cup of tea (graciously accepted) and an apple (politely declined), Ariadne perched on top of her desk.  
“So. How can I help you? On an errand for the great detective?”  
Miss Lemon gave her a thin smile. “Mr Poirot asked me to return your gloves; they were found in the theatre after that nasty business with the bigamous jewel-thief.”  
“And he couldn’t drop by himself? Off investigating some horrible murder, I expect.”  
“Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings have gone to Fudbury for the week. Lord FitzUngible is throwing a _soiree_ , I hear.” Ariadne gave a dismissive grunt. She disliked parties. The drinks were too fizzy, and there was the risk of having to interact with The Public.

~

 _Meanwhile…_  
“My gosh, old chap! I think the fellow’s been stabbed!”  
“Not stabbed, _mon ami – murdered._ ”

~

“I should drop by when Poirot gets back to London,” Ariadne mused. “See if he’s had any interesting cases lately. I could do with some inspiration.” She gestured to her typewriter irritably. Miss Lemon sipped her tea, betraying no emotion.  
“Are you working on another story about your Swedish sleuth? I rather enjoyed _‘Blood on the Bloodstains’_ , you know.”  
Fire flashed in Ariadne Oliver’s eyes. “He’s _Finnish._ ” The rage passed as quickly as it had come. “I’m working on the final chapter of my next one, where Sven dramatically identifies the culprit and justice prevails, etcetera etcetera. Or at least, I was working on it, before my damned typewriter jammed.”  
Miss Lemon sighed sympathetically. She shook her head, setting her red curls aflutter. “That’s probably my fault, I’m afraid. My magnetism has been playing up. It tends to destroy any nearby machinery.”  
Ariadne looked uncertain. “I…don’t think-”  
_“It was my magnetism.”_  
She sensibly dropped the subject.

~

“Can you see, Hastings, the baron’s thumb is covered in the green paint?”  
“My word! So it wasn’t suicide after all!”

~

The two women considered each other over their teacups.  
“Your furnishings are very…unique,” Miss Lemon said, in a valiant attempt to prolong the painful small-talk. She looked pointedly at the wallpaper. It was a lavender design, with an overlying floral print in green.  
Ariadne shot the wallpaper (lavender, green, floral) a scornful glance. “It’s ghastly, I know. I’d have it changed, but thankfully I rarely have guests.”  
Miss Lemon raised a neat ginger eyebrow. “Surely you get fans dropping by from time to time?”  
The author snorted. “The doorman has strict instructions not to let them in. Not that many of them try, mind you. I’m hardly interesting enough for anyone to waste their time-”  
“That’s not true!” Miss Lemon blurted. Ariadne was taken aback, and exhibited an expression consistent with somebody who is taken aback. Miss Lemon quickly averted her gaze, blushing. (This suited her complexion dreadfully.)

~

“It’s true, I hated my father! I’m not sorry that he’s dead! Why, I would happily shake the killer by the hand! And it’s true that I will now inherit his entire estate! But to suggest that I was responsible for his death, simply because I was the last person to see him alive and my fingerprints are on the knife? How _dare_ you, sir!”

~

Carefully setting her teacup down on a coffee table that serves no additional narrative function, Miss Lemon regarded her hostess with a deliberate look of deliberation. “The truth is, Mrs Oliver –”  
“Ariadne, please.”  
“The truth is, Ariadne, I’ve been a fan myself for some time. You have such a way with language! Your writing is always indecorously abstruse!” Her face lit up with girlish enthusiasm.  
A wry smile escaped Ariadne’s lips. “I’ve always been good with words. At my boarding school I was well known for my…quick tongue.”  
A flush crept up Miss Lemon’s neck, like strawberry jam spread onto a rather freckly piece of toast. She fidgeted with her hair, which was pinned up in a severe bun. A rogue curl escaped, brushing across her cheek. “I’ve always thought that was a valuable quality in a woman.”  
Ariadne plucked an apple from her stash, and seductively ate it in one bite. It was a Braeburn – the most succulent of forbidden fruits. Lowering her voice, she replied – “It’s been some time since I met somebody who _properly_ appreciated my talents…” Gripping the edges of her desk, she leaned forwards, a challenging look in her eyes. Captivated, Miss Lemon held her gaze, rising from her chair. Almost unconsciously, she reached out, her fingers curling around the fringe of Ariadne’s knitted shawl. Stepping closer, she pulled gently, letting the scarf fall to the floor. There was another shawl underneath.  
Ariadne’s shrewd literary gaze explored the other woman’s face, lingering on her mouth. Her lips glistened wetly, like wet glycerine. Holding her breath, she inched forwards. She hadn’t felt this excited since she’d set the Post Office on fire in her youth. Her lips parted slightly in anticipation as she felt Miss Lemon’s fingers creep around her waist.

~

“Look here Poirot, are you saying that we should be looking for a Welsh botanist?”  
“ _Non, non,_ Chief Inspector. A _pregnant_ Welsh botanist.”

~

The two women furiously grappled on the desk, with teacups, papers and stationery flung askew as they struggled for (each other’s) breath. The apple barrel was knocked over by an errant kick from Miss Lemon’s sensible footwear, and a solitary fruit rolled across to the opposite wall, a stark crimson contrast against the lavender/green floral brocade. It was very symbolic.  
They kissed with the passion of a midsummer storm as it rampages through a somewhat beige forest. Miss Lemon’s hands shook with either tremulous desire or basal ganglia damage as she entwined her fingers around whatever unflattering hairstyle Ariadne Oliver was attempting at that time.  
Her cheeks flushed like an alcoholic, Ariadne struggled free from the grip of the ginger succubus and tore her blouse open as if it were a letter from a long-forgotten school friend (who was inviting you to their country mansion for a garden party during which there would undoubtedly be a murder).  
“Ravish me, Philippa!” she cried.  
“It’s Felicity,” Miss Lemon said flatly.  
“Whatever!”  
With tightly regulated shameless abandon, the ladies enthusiastically pulled at each other’s clothes, with the intention of removing them. As they were intelligent and well-brought-up, they started with the outermost garments first.  
Miss Lemon tugged at Ariadne’s stockings (the most stubborn of underclothes); her nostrils lustfully flaring like a child with whooping cough. Suddenly, she froze, struck by an inconvenient pang of conscience.  
“But, Ariadne! What about your husband?”  
“Bah! Mr Oliver couldn’t find my clitoris if he was led there by Sven Hjerson himself!” the author replied, and grabbed her.

~

“Hang on, I’ve suddenly realised who the ruthless murderer is! I’d better arrange to meet them alone in the hedge maze at midnight so I can blackmail them! What a capital idea!”

~

The pelvis is innervated by nerves of the sacral plexus, which incorporates the sacral nerves 1 through 4 and the lumbosacral trunk. One of its key branches is the pudendal nerve (S2 – 4) which controls the pelvic floor muscles, and provides sensation to this anatomically godforsaken area. This information is of course highly relevant to what Miss Lemon and Mrs Oliver were doing to, with and on each other, but _apparently_ this isn’t something that regular erotica aficionados are interested in, and therefore will not be mentioned again. Philistines.  
“Oh, Ariadne,” whimpered Miss Lemon, panting like a panting secretary. “You weren’t exaggerating about your linguistic prowess!”  
“Indeed!” came Ariadne’s slightly muffled voice. “But wait ‘til you see what other talents I have! Decades of typewriting have given me the fingers of a viper!”  
“I think you’ll find that I too have some experience in that department,” Miss Lemon replied. Her eyes were streaming – she could barely make out the lavender wallpaper and it’s green floral print.  
“You can damned well wait your turn, Florence.”  
“It’s _Felicity!_ ”

~ 

“This is baseless conjecture! Why, _any one of us_ could have put the parakeets in the chapel that evening!”  
“ _Mais non_ , Sister Prudence, because the jam tarts which you oh so kindly served at tea contained the _ingrédient supplémentaire_ …sleeping powders!”  
“Why, you wretched little French sneak!”  
“Belgian, _madame._ ” 

~

The room hadn’t been remotely tidy to begin with; but now, there was not only an additional layer of office supplies, pages of _‘Murder in the Shrubbery’_ , and various pieces of clothing (the majority, scarves) – it was also fairly dark, as one of the light stands had been knocked over amidst the throes of passion. The green and lavender floral wallpaper, thankfully, was unharmed. The atmosphere could only be described as ‘smug’.  
“I think your other shoe is in the fireplace,” Ariadne commented. She was sitting against her desk in a state of satisfied disarray, and finding it rather difficult to stand up. She found that she was rather in the mood for a cigarette, but with none being within immediate reach, she picked up a nearby apple and set it alight instead.  
Miss Lemon was attempting to button up her blouse, failing to notice that it was on back-to-front. She turned to the other woman, wagging her finger in an efficiently accusatory manner. “You’re sitting on my cardigan, you bibliophilic temptress.”  
Ariadne extracted the beige knitted creation and threw it over. “Well! If a _woman_ was in charge of Scotland Yard, we wouldn’t be having these problems!” Miss Lemon ignored this illogical exclamation, putting it down to post-coital delirium.

A few minutes later, cardigans properly aligned and hair in place, Miss Lemon prepared to leave. Being a proper Englishwoman, she had offered to help clean up some of the mess, but Ariadne told her not to worry, as the maid would only be too happy to tidy up the room once she returned.  
“I really must be getting along,” Miss Lemon said regretfully. “I have to sort out the evening post, and Mr Poirot asked me to alphabetise all of the flannels before his return.” Ariadne nodded gravely. Truly, the post waits for no-one.  
“Well, please feel free to return any time, my dear. It gets rather dull here, just Sven and I.” Had she been the type to languish dramatically, Ariadne would have done so.  
“Of course!” Miss Lemon replied coquettishly, trying to recall whether she had any underwear that wasn’t beige. “Good night, Mrs Oliver!”  
“Good night, Filomena.”  
“ _FELICITY_.” She left.  
Ariadne sighed, and slowly dragged herself back onto her chair. She still had the final chapters of _‘Shrubbery’_ to get through, otherwise she could expect a stern memorandum from her editor next Monday. The typewriter had crashed onto the floor during the revelry, and she was concerned that the impact might have done some mischief. She retrieved it, and gave the keys an experimental tap.  
To her astonishment, the typewriter was working again. Adjusting her scarves into a more comfortable position, Ariadne returned to the fascinating exploits of Sven, who was in the middle of explaining to a room of suspects why each of them could be the murderer. Perhaps Miss Lemon’s localised magnetic field had caused the mechanism to jam, she pondered. Then again, as she knew well, there were few problems that couldn’t be solved by a good banging.


End file.
